Pay the Price
by scarletdestiny
Summary: This is a OneShot based off of a scene in Civil War that I have not been able to shake. '"You know what you did," was all the information Barton was willing to give concerning the criminal's actions. Targets always knew why they had been signaled out.'


**This oneshot idea has been impossible to shake ever since I saw Civil War, so I finally sat down and wrote it out.**

 **For those of you following my "Origin: Hawkeye" story, thank you! I am still working on it, I promise. I've been editing the chapters I already have written while still writing new chapters - they just need to be edited and posted.**

"You know what I can't stand?" Barton asked, his voice dropping lower with every word, "When people break their promises." Desperate fingers attempted to pry his hands away from their master's throat. But it was no use. Even if the fingers starting clawing his bare arms, leaving deep, red wounds, nothing could force Clint to release his target now.

"I didn't-do-any…thing." Words of denial, which would normally slip off the tongue now found themselves squeezed out between raspy breaths.

Not normally one for committing murder up-close, Clint found himself dreading watching the light slowly fade from his captive's eyes. If only because scientists had yet to find a way to being people back to life. Still, Clint refused to buy into the myth that death was too good for some people. Often, he had figured out, people were most afraid of the moments right before they died. Besides, allowing criminals to live was just asking for them to commit crimes again.

"You know what you did," was all the information Barton was willing to give concerning the criminal's actions.

Targets always knew why they had been signaled out.

They were just too damn stubborn to admit their crimes.

The man's hands tugged at Clint's, weaker than they had been a moment earlier. Choking a man to death normally took only seconds – it took minutes if you wanted to inflict pain.

"…get-grip…let-go…" The lying words stopped short.

A few last breaths squeezed themselves past the man's broken vocal cords.

In a moment of beautiful clarity, the man's eyes widened in realization – both of his crime and of the price he was paying.

Shadows chased out all remainder of light in his eyes, taking with them a life lived selfishly.

Hesitating to drop the body, Clint continued to watch the man's face for any further change. What actually happened to those he killed had never bothered him before, but it did now. Would this man suffer pain for all eternity? Would he miraculously make it to a haven for dead heroes? Or would he fade into nothing, merely turning into dust?

Knowing he would never get any more brief satisfaction from the man now that he was dead, Clint withdrew his hands from the corpse's throat, allowing the body to thump to the tiled floor.

If he was being honest with himself, he had done the man a favor killing him by suffication. Clint knew he could have been more creative in his punishment – god knew he had killed people in much more gruesome ways – but he supposed a sort of begrudgingly-held honor-code had prevented him from torturing the man for days.

Rogers would never have let that fly.

Absently, he wondered whether Natasha would have helped carry out this man's punishment, if she had known of the crime. His old partner would have, but he could never be certain what this vengeful team-player would do.

Still, she would have been the only one he trusted to help.

Clint supposed, staring down at the fresh corpse of his enemy, he already knew his answer: He hadn't asked Natasha for help because he knew she would never approve nowadays.

Still in a haze, Clint barely registered movement around him until firm hands grabbed his shoulders, shaking him hard to snap him out of his strangely philosophical thoughts. "What happened?" The voice was demanding but he could form no cohesive answer.

The figure before him was blurred, but he was able to catch a glimpse of red. "You're too late to help," he mumbled out, unaware that he was even speaking until the words were out.

His cheek stung from where she slapped him, hard. "Snap out of it!"

Composure came slowly, contrary to years of quick reflexes which should have kicked in by now.

"What happened," she demanded again, louder this time – though maybe that was just his hearing was coming back. "Who did this?"

Her face was paler than normal; she hadn't looked this frightened – though no one else would be able to tell she was afraid – since the night he had cornered her on that rooftop so many years ago. She had looked so young then, so incapable of evil, that he had taken pity on her even though he had known that looks could be deceiving. He had promised not to kill her if she promised not to stab him in the back.

And look where they were now.

Had he betrayed her? Some part of her twisted view of family was now dead, all thanks to him.

But he couldn't find it in himself to care much for her feelings. Nor could he care enough to try.

Turning his eyes away from Natasha, he glanced over at the corpse surrounded by disbelieving members of the team.

'Team,' he mentally scoffed at the word.

There was a reason why he preferred to work alone: Team members always got in the way, just to let you down when trust had finally been established.

"He killed them. He had to pay the price," was all he said as he stared down at who had been his most hated enemy: Tony Stark.

 **For those of you wondering, I took this idea both from the scene in Civil War where Stark goes into the prison to talk to Falcon and stupidly mentions Barton's family, and from the original comics where Hawkeye constantly tries to kill Stark due mostly to jealousy.**

 **If enough of you want it, I'll add a second chapter to this oneshot explaining in more detail the plot that led up to this confrontation.**

 **Thank you for reading!**


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